


don't let me be misunderstood

by melforbes



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25041220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melforbes/pseuds/melforbes
Summary: After her attack, Bedelia lets Hannibal help her tell the proper story.
Relationships: Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	don't let me be misunderstood

Medical school never taught her how to wash blood off of her hands. Back then, her greatest concern had been acrylic nails piercing latex gloves. Though barriers were put in place, she still left dissections with formaldehyde on her skin, the scent of it making her wince as she brought a wine glass to her lips. She’d had fake nails and two-buck chuck and an allowance that would provide for much more, and during her education, she was taught how to remove gloves properly, what personal protective equipment to use in messier situations, colloquially how to remove stains from clothes. But she looked down at her natural nails and wondered how she could wash the blood out from beneath them. Would she need to take something sharp and scrape the undersides, as if collecting forensic evidence? Or should she go to the salon and tip two-hundred percent, hoping the technicians wouldn’t tell?

Hannibal set down the washcloth he’d used to wipe blood from her face, took her damp hands in his. Then, he thumbed at her nails so gently, dried blood dropping into the white porcelain sink below. Only when he started cleaning for her did she realize that the police might question her about her hands.

“When should I report the death?” she asked, voice soft. 

The running water in the sink, his breathing alongside her, every noise seemed louder than before. She closed her eyes and let him massage soap and water up her arm, past her wrist, toward her elbow.

“Shortly,” he gave, and from his tone, she knew he would be staying. Had she worried he would leave, an attempt to avoid suspicion? Though she loved the vastness of this house, the many silent rooms and empty hallways, she felt that emptiness start to suffocate her. She didn’t want to be alone tonight. “I will make the call.”

When he turned off the water, she opened her eyes; he patted down her arms with a clean, white towel, then pulled the cloth away from her skin, showed her that there weren’t any bloodstains. Clean, good as new. Though they both knew that the police would question her about such things - her shirt, damned thing, would be put in evidence, the most expensive item in the station - she could sense them both silently concocting a story, something about the fragility of womanhood, something disgusting and unfortunately believable. Where would she go? He would put her to bed, trying to calm her nerves. Now, he was holding her hand and leading her that way, out of her bathroom and into the bedroom, her bed still made. Her bed was still made. When she made this bed, Neal Frank had still been alive. When she put on this shirt, this skirt, Neal Frank had still been alive, but now, his blood pooled on her carpet, his jaw wrenched open from a halfhearted attempt at saving his life. Momentarily, she wondered if rigor mortis would occur before Hannibal called the police, then wondered in turn if rigor would make the police wary of her half-truths. 

“They’ll ask for your clothes,” Hannibal said, letting go of her hand and walking toward the bedroom door.

She winced at the loss of contact, then forced out, “You can stay.” Turning toward her, he stared for a moment, waiting for a clearer invitation. Sighing, she added, “I want you to stay.”

So he sat down at the foot of her bed, gaze halfway turned while she undressed. Her undershirt, her brassiere, she’d bought these in France years ago, and now, they would be stored in a police precinct. Her skirt, unzipped down the back, and her shoes too, an old pair, at least this one scuffed and worn-in rather than brand new and in-fashion. Now that she was naked, her clothes left on the floor, she suddenly felt the chill of the room. Hannibal had turned on the air conditioning, trying to keep the body cold.

Glancing over her shoulder, watching him from her peripheries, she saw that he dared not look, offered her privacy, but she wanted him to look. Her body bare while his was still clothed, she remembered the feeling of his suits against her bare skin, luxurious Italian fabric, tailored perfectly to his size; she would sit on his lap and unknot his tie while he stared, and he would _stare_ , stare intently and silently and tell her without words that she had taken his power. And she would remove his clothes piece by piece, the tie first, then the jacket, then the vest, expensive and handmade garments falling one by one to her floor, and if he palmed her side, touched her bare skin, then she would still, her hands hovering over the buttons of his shirt, taunting him. By the time she reached his belt, she would need to mentally count seconds, slow herself down, the temptation too strong for her to maintain her same pace. 

And once, he overtook her, pushed her down onto her bed after she let his belt fall to the floor, and he kissed her with a ferocity that took her breath away, pure adoration, intensity that neither of them could control. He needed a scolding, so afterward, she bit along his neck, left a trail of bruises there. The next morning, she caught him using her makeup to cover up the marks, and because he couldn’t tell the difference between concealer and foundation, she helped him, dabbing a makeup sponge along his taut neck, setting the makeup with powder, silently telling him that, though he’d crossed her, she would very much like for him to do so again.

She wanted him to look at her. She wanted the comfortable familiarity of a lover she understood. Death brought old loves back together; she thought it fitting for the bloodied man on her carpet to reignite a past love.

“I don’t know what to put on,” she said, though she hadn’t thought of what to wear yet, hadn’t even opened her closet. 

“Something light,” he said, hands folded on his lap, still looking away from her. “White, preferably. The color adds an air of innocence.”

She’d heard of patients being told the same thing before, aggressors going to court in light-colored suits, turning themselves angelic through proper clothing, a good haircut, and a close shave. Glasses, her patients had worn glasses to court, an attempt to seem docile. Though she blushed at the thought - she’d broken her glasses recently, leaving her with an old, unflattering pair that the girl at Prada had wrongfully convinced her she could pull off - she knew better than to tempt faith. And Hannibal had seen her in her old glasses once, coming to her hotel room while they were both at the same conference years ago, asking if she would like to share a bottle of wine, he’d thought that room service would send a glass rather than a bottle, wouldn’t it be a shame to let this go to waste? And she’d said no because she thought such a thing would be inappropriate, then spent the rest of the evening imagining what would have happened had she said yes. 

“I trust that you know how to feign innocence,” she said, trying to keep her tone dark, authoritative. “Find something for me.”

Then, he turned to look at her, and she felt that same power return.

As she expected, he was meticulous, thumbing the fabric of her shirts, no silk, a cotton button-down instead, and white, of course, a color to make her appear angelic, bridal, powerless. He chose one of her looser skirts, deep purple in color, no harsh lines. Setting the shirt and skirt out on the bed, he went to find her a pair of flat shoes, something to accentuate her stature, and as she stood naked before him, she saw what was missing. She saw where he wouldn’t go.

“That’s not all I need,” she said, then looked to her dresser, the drawers that held her underwear. He already knew what was inside those drawers. He had already seen their contents. 

He nodded once, thanking her for permission, then reached in to find the first flesh-toned brassiere and pair of underwear, no nylons. He set both down, then sat at the foot of the bed again, looked to her, waited for her to dress in front of him. And, for now, she followed his lead, slowly clasping the brassiere as he watched, his eyes following her hands as she zipped up the skirt. She had done this before. Before her first clients came, she would dress in front of him, then tell him that she would see him tonight for dinner, and he was cooking, as always; then, she would go through her workday, call her driver to take her to the cafe at which she always ate lunch, finish her notes for the day, then let Hannibal pick her up for dinner, her dress for the next day left in a hanging clothes bag in his trunk. In wake of tragedy, normalcy healed. She could push Neal Frank from her mind when the man before her watched her dress the same way he had many times before. If Hannibal agreed to stay the night, then she could keep all of her demons at bay.

As she stood before him, her straightened knees touching his bent ones, he reached for both of her hands, held them while he looked up at her. She wanted to touch his face, her deadly hand coming to his soft skin, the scent of his aftershave on her fingers. No formaldehyde, natural nails, she was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted, and what she wanted was for him to call the police, report that she had been attacked, poor girl, attacked by a deranged patient. And why had she called Hannibal before the police? Oh, she’d been so _scared,_ and she needed his support, a colleague and friend. Unless they acquired a warrant, they would never need to know that Hannibal had been one of her patients; she could keep up the lie with ease. And if she needed to appear in court, she would start crying, talk about how she had been sitting in front of Frank when he _attacked her_ , the audacity of this patient! And she would be pitied, and though she despised pity, she would relish in this pity, for it was a costume, a myth. The only person who would understand the truth of her was Hannibal, and as she looked down at him, his worship of her then almost religious, she smiled.

“I need to make the call,” he said, letting go of her hands.

She wouldn’t be sleeping alone tonight.


End file.
